Sage is extinguished,
In a thrifted silver bowl.
I ask the ancestors,
If they mind.
Just enough water on the bottom,
To carry away any harm.
They don’t seem to mind,
That theres lotion on my altar.
With my eyes closed, I turn up the sound on my phone,
Loud enough that the music gets distorted, and I am unable to think about much else.
I sit with my body, I sit with her and roll her hips. I let her head dip forward, and her lips part,
For a moment,
I am away from worries.